


To Lydia

by maggsam



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Multi, Stydia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-14
Updated: 2015-06-14
Packaged: 2018-04-04 08:59:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4131760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggsam/pseuds/maggsam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I didn't need anything more than body language to completely read Stiles. Sometimes I didn't need words or movement. Sometimes I didn't need anything at all. It's because I know Stiles so completely. So wholly. Inside out and even then, sometimes I discover a new facet of him and it smacks me in the face. How did you not see him? All this time, how? </p>
<p>One-shot, post-season 4</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Lydia

When Jackson loved me, it felt like a burn. His fingertips felt powerful, they would grab at me, or trail fire across my skin. It was delicious and painful, all at once. I thought that carnal attraction was love. Though, realistically, I knew it was chemicals firing off in my brain.

And then Aiden loved me. When Aiden loved me, I felt chills. I knew our romance was frowned upon in the pack. I knew he was more bad than good, and I allowed myself to indulge in a self-pitying, self-hating romance, because I too understood that I was more bad than good. So when his hands moved over my rib cage, or when he lifted me in the air, I felt goosebumps break out across my skin. And again, I thought about how funny it was that what I was feeling was nothing more than my biological design. As we would kiss, I would think over and over again:  _Adrenaline, Dopamine, Serotonin...Adrenaline, Dopamine, Serotonin…_

All of these chemicals, all of these feelings, just so the human race could continue.

But when I kissed Stiles, I didn't feel fire. I didn't get chills. I didn't think ' _Adrenaline, Dopamine, Serotonin.'_ For the first time in my life, I didn't think anything at all.

I just felt.

* * *

Sometimes when I can't sleep at night, when I toss and turn and think of Allison, or think of how no one in the pack has called to check up on me in over a week, I think of him.

I think of what he must be doing at the moment. Probably in bed with Malia.

And then I think of Malia, and what she must be feeling right now. I wonder if she feels a burn. I wonder if she feels a chill. I wonder if she's feeling a rush of that chemical mantra that repeats in my head whenever I love someone.

I bet she does. I bet she feels fire, I bet she feels ice. I bet she feels like Stiles is one of the best things to happen to her, and I bet she's sleeping by his side just fine.

And I think of how she must appear to be the one with the advantages, the upper hand.

But she doesn't.

She doesn't realize who Stiles  _is_. What he needs. How he feels. She doesn't realize that being in a relationship is having that mutual understanding, that instant connection. And maybe I'm assuming, as I usually do. Sometimes my mind just whirls and whirls and goes off and next thing I know hours have passed and my mind is still  _going going going_. But I really do think I understand their,  _ahem_ , 'complex relationship.'

That's what Stiles told me, when we paused our sleuthing to raid his refrigerator. Things were different between us now. He knew that and I knew that and we both didn't have the gall to acknowledge it out loud. We just let it hang between us, heavy in the air like a stormcloud about to burst with rainfall at any moment. Usually when we were together, we avoided speaking about Malia. But I felt a bit cheeky as I took a sip of cola and muttered, "so...how's Malia doing with algebra?"

I watched as he rubbed the back of his thumb above his raised eyebrows, and he didn't look at me when he said that she was getting better. His lack of eye contact spoke volumes. And I didn't need anything more than body language to completely read Stiles. Sometimes I didn't need words or movement. Sometimes I didn't need anything at all. It's because I know Stiles so completely. So wholly. Inside out and even then, sometimes I discover a new facet of him and it smacks me in the face.  _How did you not see him? All this time, how?_

He clears his throat before murmuring, "she's uh...she's a complex person. And we have a...complex relationship."

I say nothing but raise my eyebrows. There are no words. I know he deeply cares for her. I know she deeply cares for him. I also know that it won't last. Malia cares for him, maybe even loves him. But she doesn't  _need_  him. And maybe, in a small, quiet corner of her mind, she even resents him. She takes all her poor social cues from him. She lives with him. It's Stiles, Stiles, Stiles, always. Surely, after being on her own for so long, she is unaccustomed to what it is to exist without needing someone. But Stiles, he's fragile. His relationship with people is built off of a mutual need. A desire for close, everlasting connection. He clings tightly to Scott, to his father...to me. Even when I wasn't even aware of his existence. He clung to me, he needed me. And now I need him too.

* * *

I take my time getting ready. I know to some the importance of appearance may seem shallow, or vain. I suppose I can't disagree with that, but I don't think anyone can deny there is power in confidence. For me, I feel most confident when I put on a particular pouty shade of red lipstick and put my feet in Jimmy Choo's. To each his own.

I also enjoy the routine of it all. It's theraputic almost. I wake up early and read various national newspapers to keep up to date on current events while I sip my coffee, then I dress in the outfit I picked out the day before, followed by my hair and makeup routine. The softness of the makeup brushes, messaging moisturizer into the skin...it's all so spiritual. And then of course I kick whatever hunky freeloader is watching me out of my bed and into the morning light. That part of the routine is a little less holy.

Today it was some rando that hit on me at the cinemas this weekend. He was gorgeous of course, they always were. They were also all predictable, and as shallow as a puddle on a summer day. No substance. No  _life_. And very, very rarely did they have a brain.

"Do you always take an hour to dress yourself?" he calls from the bed, smirking.

"Darling, it's important to put your best foot forward at all times." I smirk back, resisting the urge to roll my eyes. My mind starts whirring, and before I know it I'm predicting what his next move will be. Will he tell me I look gorgeous without makeup? Or will he rise naked from my bed in a sad attempt at seduction? Sometimes guessing games are so fun.

"Baby, you're already a ten, you don't need that stuff."

_Boom_. Called it. So sad.

I fight the urge to wickedly smile like the Cheshire Cat. The predictability of humankind makes my head throb with annoyance, and this beautiful piece of man-candy has overstayed his welcome.

It doesn't matter how many men I bed. Blonde or red or brunette, blue-eyed, hazel-eyed. (Though I meticulously maintain a distance from any brunettes with big, endlessly brown eyes who have strong hands and pouty mouths). They all play their part, and we do mattress dancing all night and in the morning, I send them on their way.

It's not like I'm breaking their hearts anyway. They know exactly the kind of girl I am, just as I know exactly the kind of men they are.

Empty. Empty, empty, empty.

* * *

Stiles pulls his stool closer to mine with a deafening screech, causing the majority of our AP microbiology class to turn their heads in annoyance. He flinches and rolls his eyes back at them.

"Sorry, just trying to view some prokaryotic organisms here. Sue me." he says sarcastically with a lick of his lips. I push the compound microscope across the lab table for him to peer into the eyepiece.

"Christ, everyone's acting like we're performing heart surgery here, instead of watching bacteria swim across petri-dishes. We've been doing this shit since the seventh-grade."

I watch as his jaw clenches and unclenches as he focuses hard into the microscope.

"You look really nice today, by the way." He surprises me with his sudden compliment, still examining the bacteria.

"Thanks," I smile, absently doodling on the lab report. "Homecoming votes are being cast today."

"It's not like you have anything to worry about." he smirks, looking up from the microscope and slides it back to rest in the middle of the table's surface.

"Of course I do. In case you haven't noticed, my popularity has been dwindling as of late. E.g., as my sanity drops, so does the maintenance of my status quo."

Lose your mind and traverse naked in the woods for a few days and suddenly you're not just  _Lydia Martin-the hot bitch_  anymore, you're  _Lydia Martin-the_ _ **crazy**_   _hot bitch._ (Though I presume the 'bitch' part of my personality has been reduced to a mere 'assertive,' thanks to the sweetening of Stiles Stilinski's presence in my life). I know I'm a different person, a better person, because of him. Someday I'll find the strength to let him know.

Stiles just shakes his head with a smile. "You're still just as gorgeous and revered as ever, I'm telling you. You have this in the bag."

I try not to look over at him so he won't see me blush.

"You have to say that, you're my best friend."

It slips out so easily, and I freeze. I can feel him also pause anxiously beside me. It's the truth, he is probably the best friend I have since...Allison. But Stiles and I rarely put our relationship into words.

We have the majority of our classes together. Advance Placement political science, AP micro, AP english...we are the only two out of the pack to have the same schedule, thus we became partners for every class. And of course we had lunch together with the rest of our friends. After school was different, though. Sometimes we took turns studying or researching at one-another's home. Most of the time though, he was occupied. Lacrosse, Malia, Scott. Either one of the three. Frequently, Malia and Kira would beg me to keep them company while they watched their boyfriend's lacrosse practice after school. I would oblige, trying not to be obvious as I snuck glances at Stiles' endearing weariness on the field. But after school, it was like a great chasm between us. A rift that tore a way through ever since the Nogitsune left his body. We both pretend not to notice it, and it's like pretending not to notice the Grand Canyon when you're standing on it's ledge.

"I don't say anything unless I mean it." he finally replies, and I just shrug a shoulder, feigning a cool casual-ness.

"Yeah, well, even when a company is number one in the market, they still advertise." I smirk, and he mimicks, eyes flashing.

* * *

It's amazing how you can go through something so terrible and still have some sort of normalcy. In the past two years, my sanity has come and gone. Someone beautiful and honest and my first true friend entered my life, only to be prematurely and cruelly ripped from the word. I saw people die. I saw their souls rise up and I hear their cries of injustice at night, and it keeps me awake. I've used more under eye concealer this past year than I've ever used in previous years combined. But still, life goes on, even when it feels wrong. Even when it feels like the world has stopped turning long ago.

I find myself thinking about my upcoming economics exam, and whether the lacrosse team will do well against their game with Upper Perk tonight, and whether anyone will vote for me for homecoming queen. Homecoming queen used to be the only thing I thought about, and even though I desire to win, it's not all-encompassing. Either way, I'll live. I've survived much worse.

* * *

Kira, Malia and I watch from the bleachers as the boys do laps around the field to warm up. Scott leads the pack both physically, and emotionally.

"You're boyfriend's a leader in every sense of the word." I smile, nudging Kira with my shoulder, and she looks down shyly, picking at her bright purple fishnet stockings.

"Yeah, meanwhile my boyfriend looks like he needs a freaking medic!" Malia growled, eyebrows knitted together as she examines Stiles, bringing up the middle portion of the group.

I roll my eyes with a smile. I know for a fact how fast Stiles can run, as I've ran for my life many times beside him.

"Lydia, I bet you can run faster than half of this team in your heels." Malia continued, pinching my leg good-naturedly. I throw my head back and laugh, and it feels good. Kira and Malia are good about filling a void.

It's like a bandaid over a permanent wound, but at least it's something.

Slowly, the bleachers begin to fill up as more students and families arrive, and the opposing team pulls into the parking lot in yellow school buses. This is not going to be an easy win. Upper Perk has been gnawing at our heels for the championship for quite some time, and while the bracket is still in the preliminaries, this game will determine the tone for the rest of the season.

I watch as Stiles uses his stick to stretch out his shoulders, watch as his muscles flex under the crimson of his jersey. Number 24. Vaguely, I wonder if he knows it's my favorite number.

He takes his helmet off to ruffle his thick hair, making it stick up at odd angles, and I find myself biting my lip. I'm nervous for him. I'm nervous because I know he always gets anxious before a game. He's one of the best players on the team, when he's not too psyched out. I can't blame him for being nervous. He's got a predator girlfriend watching his every move from the sidelines, and his... _tether?_...sitting right next to her. I don't know what to call myself in relation to him. Friend just doesn't quite seem to cover it, so I don't even try.

Malia crosses and uncrosses her toned tan legs, and I can see she's been picking at her nails as the Upper Perk players hustle onto the field for warm ups. On opposing ends of the field, the two teams line up to take turns throwing the ball into the goal before returning to the end of the line to repeat the process. Kira snaps a few pictures of Scott on her canon camera before turning the lense to Malia and I. Malia warmly throws an arm around my shoulders and I feel a wave of nausea. She considers me to be a good friend, while I consider us to be acquaintances at best.

It's not as if I dislike the girl. I genuinely do care about her well being, but she's just everything I'm not. And I just happen to be in love with her boyfriend. Whatever, it's complicated.

Finally, a whistle is blown and overhead, the game commentator roars to life.

" _ **Gooood Moooooorniiiing Vietnaaaaam!"**_

Groans all around. It's Greenberg at the microphone, never a good sign. Coach has suspended him from playing another game, again, and when that happens, the only thing that will shut him up is to place him as the game commentator. Bad for Greenberg, bad for everyone else in the stadium as well.

" **Sorry, sorry. Bad joke. Let's pretend that never happened...uh...welcome to tonight's game, Beacon Hills vs. Upper Perk!"**

Kira, Malia and I jump to our feet to cheer as the guys run across the field to take their positions. Scott crouches at the center, ready to square off with the opposing player for the ball. Stiles flanks his right side, spinning his stick over and over in his gloved hands.

"Come on Stiles!" I scream, and I think he actually hears me, because he briefly turns to face the bleachers and flashes me a smile.

Coach blows the whistle, and the game begins.

* * *

"You were amazing!" Kira gushed, as she picked up a french fry from the plate in the middle of the booth.

"Gotta admit, I was a little worried there." Scott smiled, taking a swig of coke. The game had indeed been a nail bitter, but Scott and the team had pulled through for a win, just like always. It was hard to lose when an alpha was on the pitch.

After the game, Scott and Kira, Stiles and Malia, and myself-the eternal fifth wheel- headed to the town's local 24 hour diner. The Diner, as it was simply called, was notorious for their all day breakfast foods, in addition to the hordes of drunken/stoned high schoolers that would flock in packs after home games or post-party at 3 am. There was something comforting about the plush booths, each with individual jukeboxes, and the dull fluorescent lighting.

Sometimes when I was afraid to let the darkness swallow me at night, and I felt particularly abandoned by the pack that week, I would head to this diner to drink a crappy cup of coffee and wait until the sun rose once more.

We sat down and split a plate of large fries between the five of us, basking in the postgame victory. Scott and Stiles still had their uniforms on, and I watched Stiles as he laughed at Scott's jokes, cheeks still pink from the win, deep eyes twinkling.

"I propose a toast!" Malia suddenly said, holding her root beer in mid-air.

"To Stiles and Scott. Congrats on winning the game, and Stiles, congrats on not embarrassing me too much." she joked, nudging her shoulder into his own. He rolled his eyes and gave her a peck on the cheek. I looked away quickly and felt my face burn, sure they had noticed my obvious discomfort.

"And to Lydia Martin-" Scott interrupted, and I looked up as he raised his glass and smiled warmly at me from across the booth. "This pack's resident genius and beauty queen. And soon to be Homecoming Queen!"

I watched them all turn to look at me. Kira and Scott wearing the same expression, Malia's nose crinkling in a close-lipped smile. And then finally to Stiles, who stared at me with unwavering focus, the way an artist studies his masterpiece.

"To Lydia." he whispers.

 


End file.
